


Rookie

by unclaspedkahuna



Category: Homestuck, Vast Error
Genre: A LOT of violence, Bad things happen in this fic guys i dont know how else to put it, Begging, Biting, Blood, Blood Kink, Bruising, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Crying, Crying Kink, Degradation, Dismurrit - Freeform, Edging, Guided murder, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Head stomping I guess :rolling_eyes:, Heads get caved in with a boot, Irresponsible usage of a knife, M/M, Murder, No Beta read we die like men, Off screen metal bat beating, Oral Sex, Other, Rough Sex, Scratching, Slapping, Stabbing, Vast Error - Freeform, Violence, also technically its not much, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unclaspedkahuna/pseuds/unclaspedkahuna
Summary: Dismas Mersiv has never killed anybody, but that is about to change.
Relationships: Dismas Mersiv/Murrit Turkin
Kudos: 20





	Rookie

**Author's Note:**

> plz abide by the warnings this is one of them there fics that is very true to the tags, and if that shit makes you uncomfortable, don't read it <3

Dismas Mersiv has never killed anybody, but that is about to change.

To be fair, the man is already beaten half to death, having been subjected prior to the whims and wiles of Murrit’s metal bat. Part of Dismas had hoped that this action alone would end in death, leaving his own hands clean in the meantime. But peace and luck have never been good acquaintances to Dismas, and now he is kneeling in between the shattered legs of he who had once called himself a con artist.

Murrit is perched, comfortably, behind Dismas, traipsing his fingertips up and down Dismas’ back. They draw loose, broad circles as Murrit hums under his breath. He is waiting- Dismas, in turn, is stalling. Dismas’ hands clutch onto the knife, holding it close in a last-ditch effort to exert any kind of control. However, it is the nature of their relationship that Dismas relinquishes control whenever Murrit is around him, and especially when his hands are working their way around to Dismas’ chest and finding that spot that makes them both sing…

Dismas doesn’t sing. Now is not the time for music.

(Murrit would not-so-kindly disagree- times like these are often punctuated by a wicked tune, he would say. But he’s mindful of this being Dismas’ first time and decides in all his generosity not to pick on his partner, granting him the silence he so desires).

Dismas’ whole body trembles as he watches the man in front of him twitch; his eyes have gone cerulean and puffy after having his face nearly caved in, lips busted, and nose scattered in cartilage pieces around the room. If he could talk (which he very much cannot on account of the beating his windpipe took only minutes prior), he might beg Dismas for mercy, or to put him out of his pathetic misery. It doesn’t matter which one though; either will have no effect on the paralysis overtaking Dismas at present.

The only words that could snap him out of this trance are the unforgiving commands of his partner in crime, but he seems to have taken a vow of silence, waiting for Dismas to do something. He doesn’t care if he does it right. He just wants to see how much time has to pass before Dismas’ patience runs thin and he is forced to take action. And by all means, Dismas _wants_ to kill this motherfucker in cold blood, to have Murrit tell him how good he is doing, but his hands just won’t move with the directions his head is giving them. He needs to be told what to do. He needs to hear it from somebody else.

“Murrit…”

Murrit murmurs in response, lips pressing small kisses along Dismas’ spine.

“I don’t know what to do.”

His voice is muffled as he buries his face a little harder into the soft skin of Dismas’ back. “Mmm-yes, you do.”

“No, no, I really don’t, I don’t know how to do this,” Dismas’ voice is shakier than he expected it to be, although it makes sense considering the state of the rest of his body. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You gotta decide yourself. Or it doesn’t count.”

“Count for what?” Dismas hisses at Murrit, beginning to get annoyed at the lack of direction.

Murrit doesn’t answer the question, just gives Dismas’ sides a light squeeze to try and push him towards doing something. Dismas is still left as motionless as before, trying desperately to allow Murrit’s inaction to spur creation of his own.

He can’t help but crave guidance; he’s never been a decisions guy.

The knife slowly lowers itself so the tip presses against the man’s stomach, and Dismas’ hands are the ones moving it but it’s not _him_ doing it. He feels like an outsider, watching from behind the glass as the body (that he does not currently inhabit) tremulously hugs the blade to the man’s belly.

It starts to press a little harder and harder, and the skin around it begins to struggle to accommodate, before it suddenly buckles and gives away, a gash ripping from just above the waistband of his pants all the way up to the bottom of his ribcage. The man tries to scream, but it comes out gurgled and strange from the blood bubbling in his throat, which continually spills out of his mouth and coats his face in a new layer of liquid blue.

Murrit’s hands, which are still wrapped around Dismas, shower him in a half-assed applause; “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Dismas would love to respond, but he still has not regained any control over his body. The knife is still buried to the hilt inside of the man’s stomach, and now the shaking is leaving small lacerations along the edges of the wounds, and each one is scored by another wretched sob from the unwilling victim.  
Murrit leans in and whispers to Dismas, as if his commands are a secret for only Dismas to know; “Do it again.”

Dismas lets out a sigh of relief at the order and finds himself returning to his body under the familiarity of acquiescence, relaxing into Murrit’s arms. He lifts the knife and brings it down again with a bit more conviction this time, leaving a slash that creates a large X over the man’s chest. He squirms, body shaking with his cries, which only makes the wounds shift and slide against each other, the slight irregularities in the wound snagging and tearing each other wider. 

“You’re so good at this,” Murrit coos, sending shivers sprinting up and down Dismas’ body.

He can’t help but buckle under the weight of praise, stabbing the knife between the man’s ribs with enough force that he can both hear and feel a few things crack. He’s still shaking, but it’s for a different reason now. The tip of the knife slides through smoothly and hits the floor, metal on concrete ringing out in a soft clink.

“Do you like it?” 

Dismas bites his lip before nodding hesitantly; the man cannot see much, and there is very little eye left, but Dismas can feel the disgust radiating off of him. Murrit continues.

“Do you get off on it?”

Dismas shudders. He hadn’t thought about it at all, but now he can place where the new set of shakes is coming from. His head drops a little in defeat as he murmurs a ‘yes’ under his breath, and Murrit chuckles a little. His hands drift northbound, and now Dismas feels okay letting out a soft mewl in response, letting go of the knife and placing his hands over Murrit’s. 

“Jesus christ, you’re so fucked up,” Murrit is still laughing- everything is just a funny game to him.  
Dismas growls, “So are you.”

“Touche, touche,” Shades clatter to the floor, Murrit shaking them off his head so that his hands don’t even have to spend any fleeting moment off of Dismas’ tits. 

His lips seal to Dismas’ shoulder blade, taking the time to leave small bronze marks over his upper back. Dismas begins to get a little scattered as he does so, unsure of whether he was supposed to keep going or not, but he elects to leave it alone for now, revelling in the ecstasy of touch in the meantime. 

Murrit bites down on Dismas’ shoulder suddenly without warning, and Dismas yelps a little bit, trying to crane his head to look at Murrit, but Murrit is quick to plant a kiss over the bite (where his fangs left four distinct punctures in Dismas’ skin). 

Dismas peels Murrit’s hands off of him and grabs his shirt by the bottom, yanking it over his head quickly. He turns around to face Murrit, who is grinning an awful and lopsided grin, eyes lidded low with a wanton and murderous desire. He presses his index and middle finger into Dismas’ sternum, trailing them down slowly. His gaze has fallen to somewhere that is very obviously not Dismas’ eyes.

“You really wanna do this? You wanna fuck in front of a dead guy?”

Dismas nods yet again, wrapping his hands around the back of Murrit’s neck, pulling him in a little closer, “He’s not dead yet.”

Murrit looks over Dismas’ shoulder at the man who is still grasping loosely to his last thread of life, and gives a little ‘huh’; “So he isn’t.”

“I don’t mind,” Dismas is still trying to claw Murrit in for a proper kiss, but both his stature and his status give Murrit the power to resist it. 

“You are one freaky thing,” Murrit lets himself drift closer and closer to Dismas.  
Dismas smiles a little, “you wanna find out?”

Murrit answers by finally kissing Dismas, hands once again planting themselves firmly on Dismas’ now bare chest. Dismas moans into Murrit’s mouth, letting Murrit handle him like playdough. Dismas runs his hands up into Murrit’s hair, taking a firm grip once he’s there. Suddenly, Dismas doesn’t mind the pool of blue that they are kneeling in. In fact, he invites it.

He begins unbuttoning Murrit’s shirt, and Murrit lets him, and soon Dismas is trying to tug it off of him, but Murrit is happy where his hands are, so it ends up hanging loosely off of his shoulders. Dismas whines at this, not appreciating the sensation of being more naked than his counterpart, but Murrit very obviously does not care, pinching at Dismas’ sensitive skin; “Watch the attitude.”

“Sorry,” Dismas can’t help but let his guard down when he’s in situations like these, “sorry, sorry, sorry…”  
Dismas starts pushing Murrit back a little, and Murrit slowly leans himself down until his back is flat against the floor, Dismas now straddling his waist. Their faces are still locked together, and Murrit sinks the tips of his fanged teeth into Dismas’ bottom lip. Both of them taste blood immediately, and Dismas curls his nails into Murrit’s chest to return the favour. 

Murrit frees one of his hands and grabs Dismas firmly by the hair, tugging it backwards without mercy to unveil the full length of Dismas’ sweet, sweet neck. He uses the vantage point to pull Dismas’ throat down to his mouth, threatening to tear out his jugular at any moment. This freezes Dismas into complacency, letting his eyes flutter shut as Murrit runs his fangs over his throat. 

He wants to bite down very, very badly, but his lack of self control means that it would almost certainly end in Dismas’ demise, so he opts to drink in the fear that pours off of Dismas instead. Dismas shakes a little, fully aware of how badly Murrit wants to see him die.

Murrit moves his mouth down to the crook of Dismas’ neck before he sinks his teeth in, and Dismas cries out instinctively. He knows that it does nothing to stop Murrit; if anything, it eggs him on. And it does, Murrit pulling his teeth out before leaving another unforgiving bite only inches away from the first one. He sucks a little bit on each one, lifting a bruise to the skin in seconds. As he does, his hips roll up a little into Dismas, and Dismas doesn’t know whether Murrit wants him to whimper or moan, so he goes for both. Murrit breathes hard, trying not to give away just how much it turns him on, but he does a bad job. 

Dismas has grown accustomed to the subtle cues that Murrit can’t mask when he feels it hard enough, and he uses it to his advantage, knowing that moments like this are the very few where he can get away with taking out as much violence as he wishes against Murrit (contingent on the fact that Murrit can, and will, do the exact same). 

Murrit lets go of Dismas, who snaps back to eye contact with a sigh, bearing his own hips back down onto Murrit. This elicits a drawn out groan, and Murrit drops his head back into the floor, letting Dismas take as much lead as he’s allowed. He reaches down and grapples at Murrit’s pants, tugging them down off of Murrit’s waist. They do an awkward maneuver, Murrit lifting his hips and Dismas lifting himself up a little bit, and Murrit kicking the pants off, and Dismas struggling to shift his own weight so that he can also get himself out of his trousers. It doesn’t break any of the immersion somehow; Murrit’s never been one for shame, and all those funny emotions. 

They come back to how they were before, and when Murrit grins at Dismas, his fangs peek over his lips. Dismas leans back down for another kiss, tits draping over Murrit’s chest, and their teeth knock into each other as Dismas tries to bite at Murrit (who successfully manages to dodge it). Murrit’s hands come up to grip Dismas’ hips with a little extra force, holding them flush against each other. Dismas’ knees are wet in blood, and he can assume that Murrit is lying in it too, but neither of them say anything.

Dismas reels in how messed up it all is- Murrit wishes that they were listening to music.

It doesn’t take long before Murrit is tired of being on the bottom, and he grabs Dismas, flipping them over. Dismas slams back first into the floor, seething at the feeling of the back of his head hitting concrete. His legs instinctively wrap around Murrit’s hips, but Murrit pushes them off of him. He buries his face into Dismas’ neck, nipping at the bruises that he left behind earlier. Dismas tries not to make any embarrassing noises, tousling Murrit’s hair in his hands instead. Soon enough, Murrit is drifting downwards, lips trailing over Dismas’ belly. He trembles a little bit at the feeling (but he is definitely NOT ticklish and he _will_ kill you if you bring it up).

Murrit is still making his way downwards until his head is in between Dismas’ thighs. He skips over where Dismas would like to feel Murrit’s lips the most, biting down hard at the flesh of his inner thigh. Dismas flinches so hard that he almost kicks Murrit, but just narrowly avoids him, laying himself flat on the ground and panting. Murrit continues to nibble softly, laughing at the way Dismas just cannot help but squirm.  
He takes his sweet time moving closer and closer to where he _really_ should be right now, listening to the sound of Dismas getting progressively more and more frustrated, and eventually feeling it as Dismas drives his heels into Murrit’s back. 

“You’re being rude,” He murmurs, breath fanning out hot over Dismas’ nook. “You could at least look at me while I do something nice for you.”

Dismas props himself up on his elbows, muttering a quick apology as he looks down at Murrit. Only his eyes are visible, the rest of his face hidden away, but he stares right back at Dismas, orange scleras burning like hot fires. Dismas is… _uncomfortable_ , to say the least, but he does what he’s told, so he maintains unsure eye contact, chewing on the inside of his lip. Murrit (ever the bastard) allows himself to break eye contact, but Dismas knows that he is still under the obligation to watch. So he does. 

He watches Murrit’s eyes flutter shut as his mouth gets to work, undoing Dismas in easy seconds. He hates watching it, but it’s the price he pays for how fucking _good_ Murrit is at this. There’s a high likelihood, Dismas thinks (correctly), that Murrit sees this all as a game where the objective is to turn Dismas into a sweaty, begging mess in the quickest (or longest, if he’s mean) amount of time. If that’s the case (it is), then Murrit is a world record champion at this shit, much to Dismas’ dismay.

His whole chest rises and falls as soft, high pitched moans roll off his tongue, sweet like wine, and his legs begin to feel a bit like jelly, and they wobble likewise. His thighs clamp a little bit down on the sides of Murrit’s head impulsively, but Murrit clearly doesn’t mind, speaking under his breath. Dismas cannot tell what he is saying, but it doesn’t matter, instead getting rocked under another wave of raw sensation as Murrit’s voice sends flat vibrations over him. 

When Dismas’ grip on Murrit tightens a little bit too much, Murrit’s teeth show their face again, forcing Dismas to let go despite the fact that Murrit is being a fucking tease, moving just a little too slow and with barely enough intent. Murrit holds down Dismas’ hips- Dismas hadn’t noticed the way he was moving them into Murrit, desperate for a little bit more action, but now he misses the extra friction it was adding. He would swear at Murrit, but teeth are still being used as a rather prominent threat.

When it picks up, it’s apparent that it is only because Murrit has decided that Dismas is allowed to finally get something out of this. And get something out of this he does. He keens, head lolling back to stare at the ceiling. Everything in his body is going haywire, and his spine no longer can support the crushing weight of his head, as much as he would _like_ to watch. 

“Are you gonna cum?” 

Dismas can barely make it out between Murrit’s voice being muffled out and the stars that are whizzing around his head at warp speed. He sounds a bit more ditsy than he cares for when he talks; “Mhm.”  
Murrit pulls away from Dismas, smirking up as Dismas knocks his head back up to glare at Murrit. He should have expected it, given Murrit’s track record, and part of him did, but another part of him had been so wrapped up in everything _else_ going on that he had answered the question honestly. A rookie mistake. But what is Dismas if not the perpetual rookie.

“Where do you get off pulling shit like that?” Dismas snarls as Murri slithers back up to meet face to face.

“Where you _don’t_ get off.” Murrit is never not smiling and it is particularly annoying right now.

Murrit’s entire chest is now soaked in blue blood, and the bottom of his chest has been dipped in it as well, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in to kiss Dismas again; now Dismas can taste his own sweet on Murrit’s tongue, and he doesn’t know whether to embrace it or recoil away from it. It’s certainly not the most _wrong_ thing they’ve done to date. 

Blood pools off of Murrit’s back and collects on the underside, dripping off into a steady stream that runs down over Dismas’ chest. This is definitely grosser than the last thing, but somehow he can’t bring himself to actually be grossed out by it. It’s warm, and distinctly not sticky. He likes it. Dear god, he actually _likes_ it. 

He’s so entranced by his own mess of emotion that he barely notices when Murrit drives theirself inside of him, grunting a little as he tugs Dismas’ legs up to his waist. Murrit is up on his knees, giving him a vantage point to move down into Dismas and to anchor himself a little more as the floor gets more and more wet in blood. Dismas’ moan is echoey and spacey, chiming out like choral music despite the cramped quadrants of the dingy torture room they’re in.

Murrit uses one hand to keep himself upright and balanced, and the other wraps around Dismas’ throat. If he leaned down and put a little weight into it, he could _easily_ crush Dismas’ windpipe, pop his neck like a balloon and leave a flimsy line of skin just barely attaching his head to the rest of his body. But Murrit is a good person, and decides not to for now. There’s no telling whether Dismas would thank Murrit for this or not, whether he would beg for mercy or beg for release. It doesn’t matter. Murrit does what he wants anyways, and if he ever _actually_ wants Dismas dead, Dismas will die in fireworks and popped balloons, not in some fucking basement.

Dismas is beginning to feel a bit out there, head getting achy and empty as his air flow is cut off near completely. It feels good. He wants to ask for more but he doesn’t know how to talk all of a sudden, holding onto Murrit’s wrist with both hands and tugging his hand down harder. Under the pounding sound of his own blood in his ears, he can just manage to feel Murrit’s nails tearing skin around Dismas’ neck. He can also feel Murrit pounding into him relentlessly, and it’s unclear _who_ Murrit is trying to get off- he’s moving and inflicting pain as if he actually does hate Dismas, but he’s also hitting every spot that makes Dismas cry out. Dismas doesn’t have the time, nor the capacity, to think about that right now though. In the moment, Dismas and Murrit are just grabbing at each other and making their own desperate, animalistic noises, leaving me, their idle narrator, to fill in the details.

Dismas lets go of Murrit’s wrist with one hand to claw down his chest, leaving behind four lines of violet to bubble up to the surface (to blend in with the blue which has just started to fade away) and drip their way back onto Dismas. Murrit doesn’t stop him from doing so, a little bit more focused on the other task at hand. His hand does, however, tighten around Dismas, which was not Dismas’ intended outcome, but he’s not complaining. No, in fact, his eyes are rolling into the back of his head, brown specks beginning to dot across his vision. He’s going to cum soon, and by the looks of it, he’s going to cum _hard_.

He tries, again, to tell Murrit, but he can’t talk, and even if he could, Murrit is so engrossed in what he’s doing that he probably wouldn’t hear it. He’s looking down at the conjunction of their hips, watching the way Dismas’ skin blossoms into bronze Rorschach-esque patterns- he’s not sure what he sees in them. He doesn’t care. He’s never been a fan of psychiatry. 

Murrit is close, but evidently not as close to finishing as Dismas is, feeling him tighten around him and watching the way Dismas’ stomach begins to flutter. His voice is uncharacteristically rough when he manages to sputter out his command; “Don’t you dare fucking finish.”

Dismas can’t help it. It takes everything in him not to scream as a climax smacks him right upside the head; Murrit lets go of his throat, and suddenly all the blood is rushing back to Dismas’ head, which only adds to the effect. He can’t tell what kind of noise he’s making. The only sound he can make out is a deafening pumping in his ears as his face begins to burn wildly hot and his whole body quakes.  
I can tell you, as the objective third eye here, that the sound he’s making is a slurred beg, a plea to Murrit to _‘keep fucking going for the love of everything holy’_.

Murrit is (understandably) pissed at the current situation, but decides that he’ll give in, opting to enact a more appropriate punishment once Dismas is in a better headspace to receive it. Besides, it just so happens that Murrit is finishing as well, although it’s happening in a much less spectacular display. He doesn’t make any noise discernable from the ones he was already making. If he did, they would probably be drowned out by the symphony coming out of Dismas’ mouth, so it doesn’t really matter. 

He keeps going until Dismas’ has gone lax against him, and then he pulls away from him, letting Dismas slump to the floor in a sweaty, no-longer-begging mess. Dismas does know in the back of his head that he isn’t really done, because he also knows that Murrit _really fucking hates it_ when people don’t listen to him.

Murrit pushes himself up to a standing position, slipping back into his underwear without any care for all the different hues of blood that are peeling off of him, half coagulated by this point. He turns around to look at Dismas, who is still splayed across the floor, trying to recollect his thoughts and perhaps a little bit of his dignity along the way.

“Up. On your knees.”

Dismas’ whole world is spinning as he clambers up onto his knees, blinking at Murrit, who is blotting out the only light that was being provided by the single lightbulb swinging behind him. He does not look impressed, and if Dismas knew what was happening, he would be cowering. Murrit takes an easy grasp of Dismas’ throat again, shoving his thumb up into Dismas’ chin to keep him looking up. Dismas keeps his hands in his lap. 

“That was pretty fuckin’ stupid, huh.”

Dismas nods out of reflex, but he’s still floating.

“Why are you nodding?”

“B-because I… agree.”

“So you agree it was stupid.”

“Yes, yes, yes…” He echoes the words a few times, hoping that Murrit will show a smidgen of mercy if Dismas flaunts his poor, pitiful helplessness. Murrit isn’t buying it. He’s seen how much Dismas can take, and knows that this isn’t the half of it. Dismas has the scars to testify.

“Then why did you fuckin’ do it?”

“I don’t know, it was- I didn’t mean to, I just- I’m sorry, Murrit, I’m sorry.”

“Of course you’re fuckin’ sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry- and somehow you _still_ never learn.” Murrit can’t bite back his grin. It is all just another game. This is the only reason why Dismas isn’t worried about his neck getting the ol’ balloon treatment that had passed through his mind earlier.

“I’m-”

“Sorry? Yeah, we get it loser.” Murrit takes one knee in front of Dismas, still kneeling at a significant height over Dismas. “I think some real actions would be in good fashion. What about you?”

Dismas nods again. Murrit’s right hand crosses over so the back of his hand rests softly against the side of Dismas’ face, and now Dismas knows what’s coming next. Murrit tries his best to ward off his smile, but it instead comes out as a pursed smirk; “Beg me not to hit you.”

“No,” Dismas interjects, “I want you to do it.”

“Fine,” Murrit feigns loathing, but he knew from the beginning the Dismas would want it. “Beg me to do it then.”

Dismas did not manage to capture any of his dignity that he lost earlier, so he has no problem begging Murrit for it; “Please, please, please, please hit me. I want it so bad.”

Murrit cuts Dismas off with a wry laugh, “You think you _deserve_ to get what you want? You think I give a shit?”

“No, please Murrit.”

“What _do_ you deserve then?”

“Nothing. I don’t deserve anything- but please, I want you to hit me. I’ll do anything-”

Murrit brings his hand down hard across Dismas’ face with a loud crack, and Dismas’ head snaps to the side, letting out a loud gasp as he does so. He whimpers a little bit as he slowly turns back to look at Murrit, tears prickling into the corners of his eyes, “Again, please.”

“Don’t fuckin’ get off on this, freak,” Murrit spits.

He hits a bit quicker this time, and it hurts even worse, Murrit’s knuckles impacting right along the hard line of Dismas’ cheekbone. His neck is already sore from whiplash, and his brain never really caught up with anything, so he’s spinning yet again. He doesn’t even notice that he’s crying, Murrit grabbing his face and twisting him to look back at him. Dismas can’t really talk straight, “Again, please.”

They both are very much getting off on this, despite Murrit’s prior threats.

Murrit slaps him one more time, and this one almost sends Dismas to the floor, only kept upright by the firm grasp Murrit has on his neck. His head goes limp against Murrit’s arm, and he keeps trying to talk, but the sounds that come out are anything but words. He doesn’t even _mean_ to cry, it just kind of happens, orange-tinted tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping into the floor, leaving tiny little colour-contrast pools in the sea of blue.

Dismas is grabbed by the hair and yanked upright to look at Murrit again, who is now looking in a more inquisitive manner. His eyes track over his cheeks, and he leans in, catching a tear on the tip of his tongue and dragging it all the way back up, leaving a kiss (done with the intention of leaving a hickey) just below Dismas’ eye. He leans back to admire his handiwork, taking in everything about Dismas;

Everything from his cheek down to his waist is covered both in orange love bites/bruises, and the blood of the man who is still alive behind them, having been subjected to watching that whole ordeal play out while literally dying. His nails are bleeding from the force that he tried to scratch Murrit with, and his eyes are a little bit glazed, trying to pick himself up and put everything back together. His hair has been slicked back a bit, wet with a mixture of blood (obviously) and sweat.

This is how Murrit likes him the best, and he knows this, smiling a little bit as Murrit eyes him.  
He relaxes out of his kneeling position as Murrit gets up again, walking around to stand next to the man’s head. He can just make out the blue-blood’s eyes staring back up at him, moaning in pain as Murrit nudges the side of his face with his heel. It’s impressive that he’s managed to stay alive this long, but it won’t last for that much longer. He catches his boots that he had set aside earlier with his toe, dragging them over in front of him. 

Dismas, and the man, watch carefully, anticipating Murrit’s next move.

He takes his time stepping into his boots, shuffling around a little once he’s in them to make sure they’re on tight. Once he’s secure in them, he turns around and brings his foot down hard on the man’s face.  
It splatters against the floor like a rotten vegetable; it hadn’t seemed like there was much to crush, but hordes of sinew and gore are sent flying out in every which direction. A decent portion of his brain, and the lower half of his jaw, are left where they were, but the rest find homes in random corners of the room. He’s definitely dead now.

Murrit wipes his boot off against the floor, and steps back, taking in the state of the room, and the two and a half people within it; “Shit, this place is gonna need a towel. Or ten.”

He wraps his soggy shirt around himself and pats Dismas’ on the shoulder as he leaves; “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything too crazy while I’m away.”

Dismas doesn’t watch him leave, just collapses onto his stomach and buries his face into the concrete. The room is starting to smell awful, the pungent after-odour of death wafting in and out.

Dismas thinks about how guilty he probably should feel, and how distinctly _not_ guilty he feels, and wishes to himself that he could sink into the floor.


End file.
